By year four, the Roses account breached $200,000. I began secretly interviewing real estate agents from my desert apartment. Two years ago, I pulled the trigger. I wired a $210,000 down payment for a sprawling, sun-drenched craftsman on Maplewood Court in Beaver Creek. I executed the closing documents digitally at 2:00 a.m. Gulf Standard Time. Our meticulous family attorney, Tom Beran, handled the escrow. He offered a singular piece of legal advice that would eventually become my sharpest scalpel: Keep the title exclusively in your name for now, Iris. Scammers prey on widows. And frankly, keep it entirely insulated from anyone else’s creditors.
We both knew he was politely referring to my brother’s impending financial implosion. The strategy was to transfer the deed into a bulletproof life estate trust for Mom upon my physical return. Until then, I was the sole proprietor. Mom wept on the porch the day the keys were handed over, immediately planting rose bushes before unpacking a single cardboard box.
But fourteen months ago, my brother’s construction firm went bankrupt. The bank swiftly foreclosed on his property. Rather than accept a quiet, interest-free loan from his little sister, Derek’s fragile pride dictated he refuse my help. Instead, he and his wife, Melissa, asked my mother for a “temporary” place to land. I enthusiastically agreed, stipulating only that Mom remained the undisputed lady of the house.
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